The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1887-07-01
THE CLOSING Il N Il.


Within this sober realm of leafiess trees,
The russell year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour ofcaSe,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
Tho gray barns looking from their hazy hills
Der the dim waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air Il greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds sub
The hills seemed further and the streams
sang low;
AS in q dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many Il mrnled blow.
The embattled forests, crewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host OF old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.
On slumherous wings the vulture tried his
Hight:
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaints:
And, likea star slow drowning in the light,
The village hurc h-vanc seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before
silent till some replying wanderer blew
His alien horn, aud then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrutous trouble round the unfedSed
And where The oriole hung her swaying nest
BY every light wind like a censor swung;
Where swung the noisy masons of the caves,
The busy swallows eircling ever near,
Foreboding, AS the rustic mind believes.
An early harvest and Il pientcous year:
here every bird which charmed the vernal
shook the sweet sIumber from its wings Mt
morn,
TO warn The leapers of the rosy cast
All now was Songless, empty, and iollorn.
Alone, from ont The stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo To the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their chin shrouds night
The thistlc7down. the only ghost of overs,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiscless out of
sight.
Amid all this, in his most cherries air,
And where the woodbinc sheds upon the
Its crimson leaves. as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch
Amid all This, the centre of the scene,
The white haired marion, with monotonous
tread,
Piled her swift wheel, and with her ioyless
sat like a Fate. and watched the flying
thread.
She had known SORROW. He had walked with
OFT supped, and broke with her the aslen
And in HE dead leaves still she heard the stir
IT his black mantle trailing in the dust.
lille yet her check was bright with SIMMER
bloom,
ucr country summoned, and she gave her
all;
And twice Var bowed to her his sable plume
Re gave the swords to rust upon her wall.
Re-gavc the swords-but not the hand that
drew,
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the fnvading foe.
Long, but notIoud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the murmur off, hive at noon:
Long, but moi loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through herlirs a sad and tfcmu-
l0ns tune.
At last the thread was snapped-hel head was
bowed,
Life dropped the distan through his hands
serene:
And loving ~neighbors smoothcd her careful
shroud-
While Death ana Winter closed the autumn
scene.
p. buchanan Read.